


Remembering Scars

by GraphiteWrites



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, MCU with comic history, Scar Play, ca: tws spoilers, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 08:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1544441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteWrites/pseuds/GraphiteWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's been remembering. After a particularly rough night, there's really only one person he can go to: Natalia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembering Scars

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off a dream I had one night where Bucky showed up to Nat's room like a little kid after a nightmare and asked if he could stay with her because he was scared off all the things he was remembering.

It hadn’t been easy. It had been so far from easy. It was her new basis for comparison.

Bringing in the Winter Soldier had been a long, arduous task that none of them had taken lightly. The better part of a year went by before they found him. It was silly really, how it happened. They found him at the museum, reading Steve’s story for the umpteenth time since his mind had started trying to piece itself together. James Barnes didn’t say a word to them, but the empty, broken look in his eyes told them he was ready; ready to be safe.

That was about six months ago.

He was back to being “Bucky” to Steve and trying to be himself just a little bit more every day. A lot of time was spent with Tony, trying to learn that this metal fused to his body didn’t have to be a weapon, but a tool. He may have a disgusting past, but his future didn’t need to be the same. All the boys on the team had that to teach him in their own way and they were working on it. Bucky was working on it.

Even more time was spent in the gym of the Avengers Tower where they all lived (most of the time, anyways). Every time he felt a spike of anger, violence, or some particularly prickly memory floated its way to the forefront of his mind, he was there. Much like Steve, Bucky butchered his fair share of bags and Tony sometimes sparred with him in the suit. There was still a fair bit of convincing to do with Bruce before the green guy stepped into the ring.

Natasha had finally come clean about knowing him. She hadn’t necessarily told the whole truth, but she decided it was best that everyone know there was more than just a gut-shot in their past together before Bucky said something himself. He trained her. She learned most of what she knew from that graceful, powerful man in her first years in the Black Widow program. Knowing that, even after all these years, he still overpowered her so much frightened her a little bit and she tried to keep her distance. Natasha was not easily scared and she didn’t like the feeling. Though, it wasn’t always his skills that scared her.

She finally let go of her fear that night.

It was extremely late, long about 3 am, as she padded silently down the dorm level of the tower, back from her latest mission. For once, it was silent and peaceful in the tower, the only noise coming from a TV in Clint’s room down the hall, muffled by half a dozen walls. He’d probably fallen asleep with it on again. The man never did bother to figure out what a sleep timer did.

Her long, hot shower was relaxing and she cleaned the new wounds she’d gotten: a knife slice to her right bicep and a few yellowing bruises. Nothing huge, and the cut wasn’t deep enough for stitches, but it would most likely be another scar in her collection. While putting on her tank top, her fingers grazed the slippery scar tissue near her left hip and she paused, staring at it in the mirror. Her gaze followed her body up to her right arm where she had new scarring from the shot there. Two bullets, years apart, from the same man.

With a heavy sigh, she pulled her shirt down over the waistband of her shorts. Black, everything always black. She slunk through her room off to bed and buried herself in the soft sheets and overly fluffy pillows.

“JARVIS,” she muttered, already half asleep.

“Yes, Ms. Romanoff?” came the lilting English voice, not too loud.

“Disable any alarm set for me; I’m sleeping in, Fury and Stark be damned.” She turned on her side, away from the door, and buried her face in the pillows.

“As you wish, Ms. Romanoff.”

As tired as she was, she was still a spy and could never sleep too hard without a heavy blow to the head or something involving a syringe. About an hour into blissful, needed sleep, she heard the faint click of her door being closed. She was careful not to move, other than to open her eyes slowly, so as not to give away the fact that she had woken. Her fingers tightened around the gun lying under her pillow. She took a deep breath and spun, sitting up and aiming toward the door. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dark and saw who stood with their heart at the other end of her steady sight.

His left arm glinted in the distant city lights below trying to reach the high widows of the living quarters of the tower. She couldn’t see his face because of the shadows but she heard his shallow, quick breaths and his broken voice as he choked out, “Natalia,” in a half whisper.

He ignored the gun pointed squarely at him and took slow, silent steps until he reached the side of the bed where he sat on his knees, the mattress sinking under his weight.

She lowered her weapon, choosing to place it on the nightstand just behind her and sat up a little straighter. His head hung down, heavy on his shoulders with memories, more bad than good. All that dark hair was pulled back into a messy bun at the back of his head and stringy, with a few pieces hanging in his face. He lifted his head just enough to look at her and she could see those brown eyes full of so much. She recognized everything in them, knowing she fought to keep the same things out of her own. He smelled like deodorant and sweat; it had been a long night in the gym for him. She watched a thick tear roll down his cheek as he stared at her imploringly.

“Oh, Natalia,” he repeated. She hadn’t heard that name in so long. It was his. “I’m so sorry.” His shoulders fell and he completely collapsed on her bed, his head landing near her hip.  
Natasha watched in silent shock for a moment as his shoulders shook, his left hand opening and closing, clenching uncontrollably. She relaxed, knowing he was no threat to her like this. Her hand reached out instinctively, smoothing over the side of his head through his hair in a soothing motion. She shifted his shaking shoulders so his head rested in her lap against her belly, and his arms wrapped around her in a desperate hug. She continued to stroke his hair, calming him in some of the few ways she knew how, her fingers kneading his scalp, down to his neck.

After a few moments, she realized he was speaking, his voice stifled by her clothes.

“What?” she croaked out softly, leaning her ear down towards him.

She felt him clear his throat in his chest, the rumble of it humming against her knees. He peeled himself away from her to sit back a little, the look on his face making him resemble a scared kid.

“I remember. I remember it all by now. Every day when I wake up. All the people I killed, the things they made me do. The pains of each wipe claws through my head each time. Everything I did to Steve.” His voice trailed off. “Everything I did to you,” he whispered the last.

All she could do was nod. She knew. There were some things he couldn’t go to Rogers with, afraid the good soldier would judge him, cast him away, despite how unwilling Barnes was in everything he did. It was only logical that Natasha be the one he could crawl to like this.

“I know,” she told him simply. “It’s never easy coming to terms with yourself, the things you’ve done. I’m still working on it, too.” She kept her voice low, just above a whisper, though she didn’t know why. Walls around here were thick enough for privacy and there was a very slim chance they’d be heard.

“How do I do this?” he asked.

“Slowly. And by doing enough good.” At least, that was the way she was handling it.

She tugged the covers out from under him, then, noticing his bare feet and thin sweat pants. Her pale hands guided him to lie down, and she followed suit. She ran her hand through his hair again and he curled up into a giant ball. His arms drew back around her waist and he buried his head back into her abdomen, content to stay there like a child.

She felt his fingers play idly with the skin of her back under her tank top and she curled around him, her cheek resting on the top of his head. His flesh fingers were a little clammy as the found the scar near her hip and stilled. The one she got failing to protect her mark. One he put there. Guilt rushed through him all over and he remembered tagging her arm. He drew himself up, searching her bicep with metal fingers in the dark until he found that newer scar.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He would never say it enough. He could never apologize for everything he’d done.

She tried not to flinch when she felt his lips on her skin, gently, softly, but there. She blinked up at him from her place on the pillow. “It was a complicated situation,” she said.

He gently rolled her onto her back, freeing his right arm and found the scar on her stomach. He pressed his lips there, too. “That wasn’t,” he murmured against her soft flesh. “Not for me.” He looked back up at her, saw the open gash that followed the curve of her strong muscles. He kissed there, too, feeling the need to.

“That wasn’t you.”

“I know.” He brushed a stray lock of her fiery hair out of her eye. “You knew me. That’s why you didn’t stop me.”

“No. I couldn’t stop you. Make no mistake; I would have pulled the trigger with a clear shot.” It didn’t feel right lying to him, so she didn’t.

There was no shock in his dark eyes, no hurt. He knows because he trained her. He taught her that. He would have done the same. Not anymore, and that was the difference. He had everything back. He had his childhood with Steve, the war. He had the Red Room, Natalia. He had blood and death. He had Natalia. He was Bucky again. He was…

“James?” she whispered at him, growing worried at his silent stillness.

He blinked and his lashes were damp again. Dammit.

He leaned down that few inches and kissed her, just barely. She coaxed him into a real kiss, drawing his upper lip between hers gently. It was still soft, still chaste, but it was enough.

He pulled away and returned to his resting place curled at her stomach, arms clutching at her slightly more relaxed than before. She placed a kiss on the top of his head and she felt him take an enormous breath,  
exhaling slowly and going limp in his attempt to sleep, his metal arm becoming a dead weight at her waist.

She closed her eyes and idly played with the numb scars that ran over his shoulder and down the blade on his back. It was an ugly seam, but she had never hated it. She fell asleep drawing lazy, distracted circles along the spidery tissue thinking that America has its soldier, and now she has hers.


End file.
